


Flayed

by biblionerd07



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Epic Bromance, Gen, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles helps Bass feel better after the whipping.  Can be platonic, can be more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flayed

**Author's Note:**

> Miles was kind of a butt last night so I'm letting him make up for it.

Miles set to work as soon as they got back to their little camp, starting a fire and getting water ready to heat up. He saw Bass wincing as he tried to stoop to help gather firewood and rolled his eyes.

“Sit down.” He ordered irritably. “Just take it easy.” Bass didn’t argue, which wasn’t a good thing. As the water heated, Miles went to his pack to look for a clean shirt he could tear up. He didn’t have much by way of clean anything. He frowned. Rachel pushed a rag into his hand. He looked at her questioningly. Rachel helping Bass? She just shrugged and walked away, refusing to admit she felt bad for Bass.

Miles carefully took the pot of hot water over to where Bass was perched on a log, looking morose. He looked at Miles, then down to the water, then to the rag, then back up at Miles again. “Uh-uh.” He shook his head. Miles flashed back to when they were 11 and Bass’s dad was chasing him around the house trying to get him to take his medicine for strep throat.

“Bass.” Miles made his voice a warning and started helping (helping, forcing, what was the difference?) Bass out of his shirt. Bass hissed when Miles started dabbing at the wounds, and Miles wanted to stop. He forced himself to remember what had happened to his arm and the infection. He put a hand on Bass’s shoulder. It was an apology, a comfort, and a sympathy in one gesture. He knew Bass would get it.

By the time he finished, Bass’s back was slick with sweat and he was slumping in pain. “Do you have another shirt?” Miles asked, the first time either of them had spoken since Miles had gotten to work. The shirt Bass been wearing was soaked through with blood. Bass shook his head and Miles sighed. Bass was notoriously bad at packing for himself. He’d bring the kitchen sink if he thought it would help the men, but he’d forget his own blankets.

Miles shrugged off his over-shirt and guided Bass’s arms into the sleeves. Bass was breathing shallow, trying to pretend he wasn’t in pain, and it made Miles’s mouth twist into a grimace.

“Thanks.” Bass murmured, staring at his feet. Miles wanted to say something, do something, to help, but he didn’t know what he could do or say. Instead he settled for his old standby: nothing.

 

Miles woke in the middle of the night, curled around Rachel. At first he couldn’t figure out what had woken him, but then he heard it again. It was quiet, easy to mistake for a breath of wind, but when Miles heard it a third time he had no doubts—Bass.

He didn’t even have to think; he automatically started carefully extracting himself from Rachel. He stepped over Connor, who, he noticed with mixed feelings, was curled up on what Miles recognized as Bass’s bedroll. Sure enough, Bass was stretched out without so much as a leaf between himself and the ground.

“Bass.” Miles placed a gentle hand on Bass’s shoulder. Bass’s eyes snapped open immediately at the touch, automatically raising his fists in defense. Not for the first time, Miles mourned their childhood. Bass used to sleep like the dead. Waking him up in the morning for high school had taken most of his mother’s patience and all of her threats. She used to say it had taken ten years off her life. That joke wasn’t funny anymore.

“Miles?” Bass’s face went from confusion to concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it Connor? Rachel?” Miles felt guilt and pain pricking at him. Bass had been flayed by his own son hours before and his first concerns were for the people around him.

“No, everyone’s fine.”

Now Bass looked annoyed. “So why’d you wake me up?” He asked grumpily. This was more what Miles remembered. Bass loved his sleep. Miles had half-heartedly joked (only once, to himself, while he was wondering outside the Republic alone, through hiccupping sobs he’d never admit he could emit) that that was the main reason Bass was so mad about Miles pulling a gun on him in the middle of the night—Miles had woken him up.

“Bass, you were…” Miles searched for a word to describe the noise. “Whimpering.”

Bass swallowed hard and looked away. “I’m fine. Go back to _Rachel_.”

The jealousy Bass injected to her name made for a beat of silence that was annoyed for Bass, guilty for Miles, and awkward for both.

“Why the hell are you lying on your back anyway?” Miles changed the subject.

“Well, I didn’t start on my back.” Bass shot back. “But I just--”

“Don’t like sleeping on your side because it hurts your hip.” Miles finished. Bass had a bad hip from high school football. There was another pregnant pause where neither looked at the other. Miles didn’t know what to say, so he needed to _do_ something. He crept back to Rachel and stealthily pulled his bedroll away from her. He brought it back and eased Bass onto it.

“No, Miles, I’m fine.” Bass protested, but it was half-hearted. “What are you gonna sleep on?”

“I’ll be fine, Bass.”

“You’re too old to sleep on the ground.” Bass quipped. It would have been better had his teeth not been clenched in pain.

Miles shook his head. “Four months, Bass.” It was a long-standing joke. Miles was four months older than Bass; for the early years of their friendship, Miles had lorded it over Bass, but as they got older, the tables had turned.

Miles helped Bass get situated onto his side and started back to his spot by Rachel. He hesitated. Somehow the thought of Bass, all alone, while Miles snuggled up with Rachel made Miles feel guilty. Plus he knew Bass would end up rolling onto his back again. Bass always slept on his back, or sometimes on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms, but never on his side. Miles bit his lip, warring with himself. Bass would never get better if he didn’t get any sleep. Miles wasn’t sure if it was the good part of him or the bad part that made him turn around. The stupid part, that was for sure. He ignored Bass’s confused look and lowered himself to the ground behind Bass, propping his friend up with his own body.

“Does that hurt?” He asked, trying to be gentle.

Bass cleared his throat. “No.” Miles could tell it was a bit of a lie but he figured it probably felt better than the ground. He gingerly snaked an arm around Bass’s waist. Miles and Bass were both holding themselves awkwardly away from one another, like they’d seen a picture of people cuddling before but had no idea how the practical application worked. Miles thought longingly of Rachel’s warmth for one second before Bass sighed and relaxed into him.

“I hate being the little spoon.” Bass murmured sleepily a minute later. He was barely awake and Bass in the haze of sleep was a lot like Bass when he was drunk—he said things he wouldn’t remember later, mostly things that weren’t strictly socially acceptable. Miles laughed a little, almost unconsciously pulling Bass a little closer, adjusting them so that he wouldn’t end up resting his head on Bass’s raw shoulder blades later.

“Well, it’s the only way to keep you off your back. Now shut up and go to sleep.”

“Thanks, Miles.” Bass even sounded drunk when he was mostly asleep, slurring a little.

“You’re welcome, Bass.” Miles said patiently. He knew it would be a few more half-asleep confessions before Bass would shut up.

“You’re my favorite big spoon.”

Miles had to push his face into Bass’s neck to stifle his laughter. Bass would be pissed if he knew what he was saying. Miles used to keep a notebook full of Bass’s sleep-confessions, which he would later read back to Bass while roaring with laughter. Bass had claimed to hate it, yet he’d never insisted Miles get rid of it or stop.

When they woke at first light in the morning, they carefully pulled themselves apart without looking at one another. They both started gathering firewood so they could have some breakfast. They didn’t talk about what had happened or the fact that both had slept more soundly than they had in years.


End file.
